


Remnants

by vassilissa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, M/M, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5216375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vassilissa/pseuds/vassilissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione looks around— Harry but not really Harry, Ron screaming to save her, Peter Pettigrew being the coward he is, standing in the corner— everything is blurry, just silhouettes she will always recognise and— Lucius Malfoy, or a ghost of him, filthy and tortured and tired, Narcissa Malfoy, scared and anxious and ready— Draco. Lean, tall, wearing a black suit, Draco Malfoy, his grey eyes, Hermione knows, watching her as his aunt throws another Crucio at her and then darkness because her eyes are closed shut and her screams are piercing and chilling and tortorous—</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. crucio

It really is no surprise when Bellatrix Lestrange decides she wants to _torture_ Hermione for answers.

 

Hermione figures, because she's a _mudblood_ , and she deserves to _die_ really, and who better than Bellatrix Lestrange to show her her _place_ , which is lying merciless on the hard floor of Malfoy Manor apparently, begging and screaming and crying—

 

It's no irony. It's _reality_. She has been told countless times by now, that she's inferior, that she doesn't _deserve_ her magic, that she will never _belong—_ this seems fitting actually.

 

Because she's not really being tortured for the bloody sword, no, she's being tortured because she is a muggle-born, a filthy little _mudblood_ and purebloods should be laughing about this, dancing and singing and drinking about what is happening to her now, because this is _justice_ , this is right, this is what she and people like her _deserve_ and—and she _gets_ it.

 

It doesn't hurt less.

 

Bellatrix's laugh is manic, echoing through the empty room and it doesn't stop, it only _worsens_ , like the _crucio_ 's that hit her, like a musical piece, a _crescendo_ , where everything is growing, _expanding_ , and then a _fortissimo_ because it stays like this, it never goes away, it feels like it will always feel like this, this _burning_ , this unbearable burning everywhere, like she's been lowered into the pits of Hell, or like she's being stabbed all over. It is a suffering worse than dying, she can understand now, she can understand the wish to die, for it to all be over, because dying means endless peace and living, _surviving_ this, seems pointless all of a sudden.

 

The writhing stops for a couple of seconds, because Bellatrix seems to be dancing now, sticking her tongue out and laughing—

 

Hermione looks around— Harry but not really Harry, Ron screaming to save her, Peter Pettigrew being the coward he is, standing in the corner— everything is blurry, just silhouettes she will always recognise and— Lucius Malfoy, or a ghost of him, filthy and tortured and _tired_ , Narcissa Malfoy, scared and anxious and ready— _Draco_. Lean, tall, wearing a black suit, Draco Malfoy, his grey eyes, Hermione knows, watching her as his aunt throws another _Crucio_ at her and then darkness because her eyes are closed shut again and her screams are piercing and chilling and tortorous—

 

She's one step away from fainting. Even with her eyes closed, the darkness seems to swim, to dance a sensual dance, luring her to follow it, and she's light headed and she wants this to stop, just fucking _stop_ already, no more, please, _please_ —

 

And it's a different pain all together now, because Bellatrix is carving on her arm with a blade. This is slow and the pain is centered around one place and it's nothing like the previous torture, but she knows this will hurt more because this will scar and it's going to stay there forever and she supposes that's what Bellatrix and every other Pureblood that believes muggle-borns are inferior want and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it _doesn't_ stop, what if it never stops, and Hermione _cries_ out, it's like she's being teared apart from the inside, but she's too tired to even fight it now, so she just lets her eyes fall open, because even keeping them closed is too big an effort, and she stares blankly at a grey wall—

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Draco looking at her, staring at her, and even though she isn't screaming anymore her screams seem to echo again and again and again—

 

She positions her head so she can look at him, and he never takes his eyes off of her, like he deserves to look at what he believes in, what he _thinks_ is right, for her to _die_ , for her kind to be _extinguished_ , and she always secretly thought it would come to this, so—

 

So she _smiles_ at him.

 

That's when he looks away.

 


	2. portkey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've taken some things from dh but i've given my own twist to them, for the sake of the plot. really hope you like it and feel free to leave a comment!

Harry and Ron—someone is taking them out of the room—screaming, someone—Ron is _screaming_ , screaming for her, screaming—no, _no_ , _please_ , no _more_ , don't, no, _Hermione!_ —

 

She's been left there to rot.

 

Face painted with invisible tears that are _choking_ her and making it hard to breathe, and Hermione can't even properly do something as simple and as natural as that now, this is what it, her life, her _survival_ , has come to after _everything_ —her arm is bloody. There's blood on the floor too, she can feel it on her back. She's probably internally bleeding too and she thinks, _good_ , _maybe this will all be over in a couple of minutes_ , when everything will have drowned in blood and she'll be gurgling with it, terrified and abandoned and _victorious_ because finally; _finally_.

 

There were too many shadows, hiding in the corners, slithering on the floor, creeping up on her, and she's being immersed in their pitch black color—She thinks Malfoy Manor surely wasn't always like this. This Manor was sure to have been great, with many _balls_ and pure-blooded guests, with relatives that had had a little _too many_ glasses of champagne—she can practically _picture_ the greatness and the magnificence that holds the Malfoy name at the top, the generations before them and all they've accomplished or simply just _had_ , because power needs riches and a smart, cunning man really, which is everything _Slytherin_ is and so she figures Draco will be an excellent heir.

 

And she—well _she_ will be dead. Not that that will make any difference for him.

 

Hermione felt the tiredness all at once, like a heavy _something_ , weighting her down, like she fought in a war far bigger than her and she fought it _alone_ , and she didn't win but she didn't _lose_ either and—Hermione supposes this is what _death_ feels like.

 

It's a shame her friends had been taken away; she'd really like to say goodbye. There were just _too_ many memories and shared laughs for her to leave without them by her side. But this _had_ to do because this was all she had. She would miss the final war, yes, but she fought a _far_ greater one, with _herself_ , _for_ herself. She doesn't know is she won or not.

 

Then she _felt_ it.

 

On her side.

 

Someone— _Someone_ was muttering something and a finger—no, _no_ , a wand, it's wood, a _wand_ , was gently pressing on her skin and—was she being _healed_? By whom? Why? Was it Ron? No, it couldn't be, he could hardly manage a spell to save himself, let alone another _person_. Was it Harry then? She knew he was _capable_ , but—now that she's concentrating on the voice (it's panicked—panicked but calculated) she has never heard of that spell. But the slight discomfort of knitting tissue was proof enough that she was, in fact, being _healed_ , and she doesn't know if she's relieved that someone _saved_ her, at last, or if she was ready to die and had accepted it enough for it to actually _happen_.

 

She's just glad that the pain has subdued. But she's still so tired…

 

She could make out the words clearly now.

 

“ _Vulnera Sanentur_.” Again and again and again, a soft murmur, barely audible—

 

It was as if all of her pieces were coming back together. Like a _domino_ ; the pain left from portions of skin like she's being helped into cold water, one part of her at a time, until all she felt was the buzzing of magic and her thoughts. Maybe it was a _numbing_ spell. Maybe this person wasn't healing her—just made her survive it a little while longer, until _something_ happened. Something that could save her.

 

If it was, she didn't know it. And she knew quite a _few_ spells.

 

With effort, she slowly opened her eyes— Grey. She met dark _grey_ eyes. _Malfoy_.

 

“What—” Her throat was scratchy. And dry. She felt like vomiting.

 

He gestured for her to be quiet, looking behind him for certainty. No one was here, but Hermione could still hear Bellatrix's laugh and her vile words, taunting her head, her _sanity_ —

 

 _You are nothing, little_ mudblood _. You will_ always _be_ nothing _, you and_ all _of your kind, you're_ scum _, waiting to be vanished from here. From the world!_ And it would be almost poetic, if she didn't _mean_ it.

 

Hermione _could_ give up, she could believe that she was worth less than nothing, but Hermione could have believed this many times, and she has fought way too many fights for Harry and for herself and so Hermione _would_ get through this.

 

She just had to get out of here. But she couldn't _move_.

 

As her mind was clearing up, she realized that she was almost _paralyzed_ with no way to help herself _or_ her best friends whom were probably being tortured by Death-Eaters in there somewhere.

 

“Stop fucking trying to move Granger or I _swear_ —” he stopped himself.

 

He looked deep in thought; tired too, with shadows under his eyes and paler than usual. But that was it. She couldn't make out anything else about what he was feeling which was typical because he _was_ Draco Malfoy and Draco Malfoy wears an indifferent mask at _all_ times, no matter the situation at hand. She knew that from sixth year, when he betrayed everyone and helped kill Professor _Dumbledore—_

 

But she couldn't think of that now. She _really_ had to help her friends.

 

“Why are you—” She took a deep breath, trying to cough to fix her broken voice. “Why are you _helping_ me?”

 

He looked unfazed by the absurdity of that question.

 

“Would you rather be left here to _die_? I'm sure I can arrange that.”

 

She tried to get up again. He almost _growled_.

 

“ _Look_ ,” he gritted through his teeth, keeping her pinned down with his hands on her shoulders, gentle but not gentle enough for her to try sitting up again.

 

“I'm trying to _help_ here, okay? Be a little grateful. All of you can die _any_ day, I don't _care_ , but I'm not letting another person die in _my—_ in _here_. I can _portkey_ you to a safe house, until _Potter_ gets himself out of this bloody _death_ trap he let you fall into—”

 

“We couldn't _know_ —”

 

“I could give two fucks. You need to _leave_. Take this—” He put something on her hand and then closed her fingers around it.

 

Next thing she knows, she's _whirling_.

 


	3. draughts

She landed inside a living room with a loud thump. A groan escaped her lips, as she clutched her side. She had probably injured herself again. The feeling of helplessness was completely unfamiliar to her and so she was extremely frustrated when she realized she _still_ wasn't able to stand up or even _sit_ up.

 

Was she doomed to lie on hard wooden floors for the remaining of her life or what?

 

A feminine voice rang through the room Hermione was in and then a gasp before she came face to face with a woman who undoubtedly belonged in the Black family. The resemblance to Bellatrix was striking. This woman though—she wasn't _crazy_.

 

This was obviously Tonks' mother, Andromeda.

 

She didn't know _Draco_ spoke with her. Hermione knew Andromeda was disowned because she married a muggle and that was that. No one contacted her ever again.

 

She had so many questions. For now, she was in pain.

 

“Oh dear, how did you get here? _What_ happened?” Andromeda put Hermione's head on her lap and removed the strands of hair that were stuck in her forehead due to the sweat.

 

There was so much sweat.

 

“Draco—Bellatrix—she—she _tortured_ me,” she managed to choke out.

 

Hermione couldn't look at Andromeda's face, but she was certain there was sadness written all over it.

 

“Poor darling...” There was a moment of silence, where Andromeda caressed Hermione's hair. “Well then. Let's get you comfortable. I'm going to lift you up—My husband is not here at the moment, everything is _hectic_ right now, but—anyway.”

 

She was now holding her wand. “ _Wingardium Leviosa_.”

 

Hermione was in the air. Andromeda put her down on the couch opposite from where she fell. When her head hit the pillows, she exhaled and then flinched. She was in desperate need of some healing potions. Or a _numbing_ one.

 

Andromeda seemed to read her thoughts. “I'm going to bring some potions. Just you wait right here, I'll be right back!”

 

Hermione nodded and closed her eyes. _Draco had saved her_ life _. No one_ would believe her. But he had, he _did_ , and now she's going to get treated and _heal_ so she can find Harry and Ron and continue the search for Horcruxes.

 

 _Harry and Ron_.

 

She prays they aren't badly hurt and have, somehow, found a way to escape. She barely restrains herself from going back.

 

She _can't_ either way. She doesn't have her wand, she can't do wandless magic and even if she tried _running_ there, she has no idea how far Andromeda's house is from the Manor. She figures way too far.

 

So.

 

She tries to relax. (It doesn't happen.)

 

Andromeda returns to the living room with an armful of little jars. “I have no idea what kind of injuries you have, love, so I brought everything I had.”

 

Hermione tried hopelessly to find the strength to articulate a whole sentence, but she needed water. She tried to show her need to the worried witch. Andromeda's eyes widened with understanding and she hurried to go fetch her a glass of water.

 

Returning with a jug, she poured her a glass and, Hermione, raising her head a bit, drank all of it. Her throat instantly felt better. She asked for another one. After chugging down _three_ glasses of water, she was finally able to speak.

 

“Draco healed me. Mostly.”

 

“He did?” Andromeda's dark eyes softened. She sounded surprised. “My poor, little boy...” She turned around to get a potion. “He's trying really hard you know.”

 

Hermione furrowed her brows. “How do you mean?”

 

“To redeem his actions. He's just afraid for Narcissa—his mother—she's not used to chaos. Especially when it's in her _house_.”

 

She didn't elaborate further and Hermione didn't push her. She drank some of the _b_ _lood-_ _r_ _eplenishing_ _p_ _otion_ and, even though reluctant, she agreed to take a _calming draught_ too.

 

“Your wounds probably need cleaning or else you could get an infection.”

 

So a purple liquid was applied to the wounds that had formed on her torso and back, and also her legs, which had meant Hermione had been stripped from her clothes and was currently only in her underwear when knowing anyone could walk or _apparate_ in there.

 

She was too sleepy to feel the _certain_ embarrassment that would've otherwise taken over her.

 

But Andromeda had taken care of that too, as she returned with a simple top and pyjama bottoms, helping her put it on.

 

Andromeda Tonks was a gentle person. In that way, she was reminded of Mrs. Weasley. You could practically _sense_ they've raised children.

 

“Goodness me! I forgot to ask your name!” Andromeda's laugh is loud and full but not obnoxious; she thought of her _mother_.

 

Who currently doesn't remember she even _exists_ , so. She stops thinking about it.

 

“It's Hermione,” replied the young witch, with a soft smile.

 

“ _Hermione_. That's an interesting name,” she smiled back. “Well, Hermione, I'm going to let you rest now. Merlin knows you need it. Would you like a _sleeping draught_? It will help with the—um...”

 

Hermione's face clouded. “Yes, please,” she whispered.

 

Tortured. She was _tortured_. All the events after that couldn't make her forget the suffering she went through. But never again. She'll _never_ let that happen to her _ever_ again.

 

The _sleeping draught_ almost put her into a coma.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written most of the story, so updates will be regular. Really hope you're liking this so far! Leave a comment if you want x


	4. insomnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you like it and tell me what you think!

It had been four days since she escaped the Malfoy Manor.

 

She had since heard a lot about Edward Tonks, a very nice man who seemed to love his wife very much, and their house elf, Grus.

 

She had met him briefly months ago when they all transformed as Harry and fought Death-Eaters while flying.

 

When Hermione felt uneasy with that discovery, Andromeda assured her that Grus is willing to be there. Hermione didn't doubt it for a second. They were a very kind family, and they both seemed to have generous hearts and she will be forever grateful for their hospitality.

 

Hermione really wanted to talk to Draco.

 

She wanted to ask him why did he do it, the _real_ reason, not the _I-don't-want-you-to-stain-my-floor_ bullshit excuse. She wanted to ask why he wouldn't take his mother away from the Manor and in Andromeda's house, family disagreement or not; Hermione is sure that Narcissa isn't a bad woman at all. She seems the type to do what is necessary, _always_. And she can understand a mother trying to protect her child.

 

What she doesn't understand is why would she let him take the Dark Mark.

 

Her brain is full of questions that she's sure will stay that way. Unanswered.

 

So she worries for her friends instead. She has no idea what happened after she left, she has no idea if they made it out of there and are now at a safe house, much like her self. She doesn't know if they are trying to find her.

 

If they even know where to start.

 

She asks Andromeda daily if Draco has tried to contact her but she always gets the same answer.

 

“It's difficult when the Dark Lord is literally living in his house, love. I'm sure he'll come when he finds the chance.”

 

But the waiting is possibly one of the worst things she ever had to go through. The uncertainty, the frustration, the panic—it was all too much.

 

And to make matters worse, Hermione's right leg was _paralyzed_. She daily took an _anti-paralysis_ potion and was making some progress but it seemed the uncontrollable writhing she did when the _crucio_ curse hit her repeatedly was the cause of this bloody problem.

 

Day fourth on probably the _only_ safe house standing somewhere in Scotland when Theodore Nott walks in while Hermione is having breakfast, covered in blood that's not his and a splinched arm.

 

Andromeda mouth breaks into a lopsided smile while she continues to dry the dishes.

 

“Improper Apparation again then, I take it?” she teases.

 

Nott nods gruffly and takes a sit opposite Hermione. Hermione's mouth is surely hanging open.

 

_What is Theodore Nott doing here?_

 

“Morning, _Granger_ ,” he snickered.

 

Hermione looked at Andromeda who had figured out by now that the two of them weren't exactly _friendly_.

 

Which would be an understatement, but— _anyway_.

 

“Theo comes here from time to time. Usually for me to heal him. You know where the potions are _mister_ , get along! And, well, he's a good friend of Draco so— Even though he _eats_ all of my _food!_ ” she hit him with the towel as he stole a toast from the platter.

 

Hermione couldn't help but feel amused. This was so many layers of weird already, she couldn't imagine the situation getting any more obscure.

 

She imagined it could though, if _Pansy Parkinson_ burst in, with her tailored nails and _Mary-Janes_ , talking about how _wonderful_ her day surely will be and all of the first years she will bully.

 

That was _always_ a possibility.

 

She never particularly cared as much for the Houses as Ron or Harry did, but being in a house with Theodore Nott, a _Slytherin_ at that, was just not a good idea to her.

 

If he decided to stay of course. Which she supposes he will, just to see her squirm in her seat.

 

“Dromeda! I think I'm staying for a couple of days, if that's alright with you!”

 

Well.

 

She felt Andromeda's hand rest on her shoulder. She looked up at her brown eyes.

 

“He's a good kid Hermione, don't worry as much.”

 

“He wasn't particularly good to _me_...” she murmured under her breath.

 

 

The nights were insufferable.

 

She was tossing and turning until four in the morning and, not having the strength to get up and _limp_ , she had to stay in bed till dawn, while she heard Andromeda's cries.

 

Ted was gone for a week now and it was still a fresh wound that she clearly didn't want to talk about. Hermione understood. She didn't want to talk about the Manor either. The skeletons are better left in the closet. For now.

 

She could never seem to get Bellatrix's laugh out of her mind, it rang and rang and rang through the walls of her head like a never-ending song which she couldn't switch off and she was getting restless, _paranoid_ , with only a total of six hours of sleep in almost _f_ _our_ days.

 

Sometimes Hermione finds it comforting to curl in the corner of the room Andromeda gave her, where the moonlight made a pathway in front of the big window. She liked to watch it, till it turned bright yellow and it was morning. It made the laughing go away.

 

 _Mudblood_.

 

 _Scourgify_ wouldn't do the job forever, she knew, but she didn't want— _couldn't_ —take a bath. She feared that she was going to scrub her skin off, to get rid of the _death_ —the shadows, the screams, the cries, the _helplessness_ —this was the toughest part of it all, how _helpless_ she felt, how she knew a thousand things to do but _couldn't_ , because the pain was _unimaginable_ , not like anything else in the world and she will never—it could _never_ —it would _never_ be the same again for her. _She_ would never be the same again.

 

And so she liked to sit in the corner and look at the moonlight that fell on the wooden floorboards. And that was that; normal or _not_.

 

The truth of it all was—she could now understand how Harry _felt_ after his nightmares. The _hopeless_ thoughts and the _confusion_ —but Harry pulled through _every_ time. He didn't let it get to him, and she would do the same.

 

She really missed her best friends. She wished for them to be well. Wished for Draco to have helped them _too_.

 

If they had been extra _careful_ at the forest—if they had _apparated_ somewhere else—if they could escape the Snatchers and _disapparate_ in time—

 

She couldn't afford thinking like that though. She would drive herself _insane_.

 

So she closed her eyes and thought of the relief in Malfoy's grey eyes when she snapped out of it while he healed her side.

 

 _Relief_.

 

How hadn't she seen that then.

 


	5. choices

Draco was there on the twelfth day, talking in hushed tones with his aunt. It was still night outside.

 

Hermione couldn't ignore the way a weight seemed to lift off of her. This meant good news. She could finally learn where her best friends are.

 

Draco noticed her first. She was still in her sleeping attire but, surprisingly, she didn't feel embarrassed. Draco looked like he aged five years now that she could see him clearly. He looked exhausted and famished—he looked like a _ghost_ of himself, just like his father, which Hermione found unacceptable.

 

Yes, war is difficult, war is the most difficult thing you're ever going to go through, but you don't let it feel you with death and destruction and _death_. You do your part until it's over and you try your best. Hermione knew that Draco never understood what he signed up for, which she concludes, is also the reason why he accepted the Dark Mark.

 

He thought that was the easy way out. But it's not. Not when you're not entirely on that side—not when you're not _evil_.

 

So Hermione understood him, in a way. He didn't have much of a choice to begin with.

 

“What happened to your leg?” he demanded.

 

Hermione threw a glance in Andromeda's way and saw the sad smile she had on her face.

 

“I'm limping. Permanently,” she answered, knowing this wasn't what he asked. She had a feeling he knew the answer.

 

He nodded, his grey eyes calculative once more. It seemed he was studying her which immediately made her feel self-conscious. She hugged herself and sat on one of the chairs of the dining table.

 

“Since you're awake—Weasel and Potter escaped after you. I believe they're in a safe house somewhere, but who _really_ knows,” he informed her, his tone blunt and bored.

 

She nodded, smiling to herself. _Thank God. They were okay._ But this meant that they will continue the journey to find the other Horcruxes and what will they _do_ without her? She hopes they're searching for her. Or perhaps _she_ could go to them.

 

“Do you know—”

 

“If I knew they would be dead, Granger.”

 

“No, they wouldn't. You didn't give Harry away. You could, you _knew_ it was him—that it was us. But you didn't give us away.”

 

He didn't answer. He still wore the same black pants and shirt just without the blazer. They didn't look dirty, but they surely had seen better days.

 

“Seeing your condition, you surely won't go running into any fucking woods for quite some time, so I suggest you stay here until I have further information about your _dear_ friends,” he snapped.

 

“Thank you,” was all she said, because this was Draco Malfoy and it didn't get any nicer.

 

She also probably owes him her life now, which is just _great_.

 

“I will be able to come here more frequently now. The Dark Lord has gone looking for the Elder Wand,” he said to Andromeda.

 

“It _exists_?”

 

“Yes. Apparently Dumbledore had won it from Grindelwald in a duel and has been buried with it.”

 

“Dear Merlin...” Andromeda sat down. “So that means that the final war is right around the corner.”

 

“I'm afraid so, yeah.” Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “Unless saint Potter actually _did_ something, being _The-Boy-Who-Lived_ and all.”

 

“He _is_ doing something!” Hermione found herself saying before she could stop.

 

Draco's eyebrows rose in mockery. “Oh, really? What? Putting you in _danger_?” he sneered.

 

“It was _my_ fault, okay? _I_ was the one that returned us to the Forest of Dean. _I'm_ the one to blame.” Tears were stinging in the corners of her eyes.

 

“Which you wouldn't even have to do, if he could take care of his own shit for a change,” he retorded.

 

“He's my best friend! Of course I'd help him!” Hermione was furious. How _dare_ he?

 

Just because _he_ didn't know the concept of friendship didn't mean he could go around judging actions made purely out of love. Hermione _knew_ she didn't have to follow Harry around England; she _wanted_ to help him. It was _her_ choice. What does _he_ know about _choices_?

 

He rolled his eyes, pushing himself off the counter. “Here goes Gryffindor's stupid bravery again. I'm sure you'd have run to save them the moment I healed you if I didn't hold you back.”

 

“Of _course_ I would. I'm still considering going by myself to find them.”

 

He smiled at her then, almost fondly, because, _of course_ Hermione Granger would do that. It was such a _Granger_ thing to do.

 

“Of course,” was the only thing he said.

 

When Hermione turned to look at Andromeda, having enough of Malfoy's face, the older witch looked between them like she knew something they didn't. It made her curious but she let it go quickly.

 

“How's Cissy?” she asked her nephew.

 

“Not good,” he confessed. “She's worrying too much. Her hair is a mess—you always know that's a bad sign.”

 

Andromeda laughed. “That's _definitely_ a bad sign.”

 

“They barely talk with my father. Azkaban fucked pretty bad with his head.”

 

“It is not an easy place to be, Draco.”

 

“Fuck if I know.”

 

“Language,” she scoffed.

 

“Sorry,” he granted.

 

Hermione would have never guessed they were close. Draco didn't seem like the type who would go against what was allowed by his _parents_. In this case, his mother perhaps. Her family, did, after all, _disown_ Dromeda.

 

“He trusts me more than him. Says I've got potential to even become one of the top Death-Eaters.”

 

Hermione's eyes caught his own.

 

“That's _awful_ , tell me you're not thinking about it.”

 

“It does sound promising,” he slowly turned to look at his aunt. “But no, I'm not.”

 

“Good choice,” Dromeda smiled.

 

“I've got to go. You-Know-Who's name is still a taboo so don't say it. I'll see when I can come back. I'm going to put extra wards outside just in case. There's probably two remaining safe houses right now, this being one of them.” He kissed his aunt's forehead, before glancing at Hermione.

 

“ _Don't_ leave,” he ordered.

 

“If you learn anything else, please let me know,” she pleaded.

 

He nodded, before walking outside. Hermione saw as he muttered a few ward spells and then transformed into black smoke and vanished into the air.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a semi-short story, maybe twenty chapters or such. I really hope you like it!


End file.
